


Omitted From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

by nichristi



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, Superwholock - Fandom
Genre: Dr. Watson POV, Gen, Human Impala, Superwholock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:28:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nichristi/pseuds/nichristi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there are cases which I have taken upon myself to keep from the eyes of the public, it is simply because the general public- no, the whole of society- would crumble if they knew what kind of activities went on in their own predictable world. The actions of Moriarty, that Napoleon of Crime, as my dearest friend Sherlock Holmes so poignantly dubbed him were only partially made public because of the absolute depth to which he had dug himself into the fabric of our nation. If the actions of that one man can threaten to uproot a country, then know that the events of this tale could uproot the whole of reality. I only write this account because I must. This work must not be published until society is prepared to accept the actions that I, Dr. John Watson, am about to set down as utterly true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Imp

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the style of AC Doyle's Stories, from Watson's point of view. I promise this is SuperWhoLock, but the Doctor will not show up for a few chapters so bear with me. I do not own any of these characters.   
> This story is set Post Hunteri Heroici, Pre Hounds of Baskerville, and Post Angels Take Manhattan. Comments are welcome. Enjoy! 
> 
> Oh, PS! This is my first ever fic, and I do not have a Beta, so all mistakes are my own.

It was just another day at Baker Street. Holmes was without a case, and thus, restless. He composed three new violin solos in under three hours, completely reorganized his case files, then put them back the way they were, and eventually began looking for the tobacco stash that Mrs. Hudson and I had hidden under one of the experiments in the refrigerator. I sat at the desk in the front room, searching for anything to occupy my friend’s mind before he began rummaging for my pistol. The poor wall had suffered enough as it was. I was about to suggest lunch and drag Sherlock out of the flat whether he liked it or not, when a thunderstorm rolled in out of nowhere. “Great.” I muttered. “Just fantastic,” I turned back to the laptop and my email’s inbox, hoping the plethora of emails would provide something. “John, where have you hidden my cigarettes?” came Sherlock’s plea from the kitchen. I opened my mouth to reply when a crash of thunder shook the very walls of the flat and a fork of lightning hit the ground outside simultaneously. I glanced outside and almost had a heart attack when I saw the woman staggering up the front steps. “Sherlock!” I cried, running down the staircase toward the street. If she’d been hit by that lightning strike, she needed help. I heard my friend follow, undoubtedly curious as to my reasons for running into the middle of a hurricane, but I didn’t stop to wait for him. A thump sounded against the door as I reached the bottom of the steps. By the time I opened the door, the woman was collapsed against the doorframe, unconscious.

I called for Mrs. Hudson and carried the woman up the stairs into our small living area and laid her on the sofa. She didn’t seem to have any signs of electrocution (odd, considering her appearance in the exact spot of the lightning strike) but she was definitely in need of medical attention. Her right shoulder was out of joint and there were a series of nasty looking scratches all down her right arm. I had just eased her black leather jacket off and was starting to clean the wounds when Sherlock appeared in the doorway, carrying a canvas duffel bag. He set it on the coffee table and proceeded to unzip it.

“Sherlock,” I warned, “At least wait until she’s conscious to go sniffing through her stuff.”

“Just trying to find ID, John.”

“Right. Of course. And anything else you can find out without her permission.”

“A woman collapses at our doorstep in the middle of a thunderstorm. I think I’ll seek forgiveness when she wakes up.” I heard him unzip the duffel.”Interesting,” He muttered. I looked up from the gash in her arm to see Sherlock pull two sawn-off shotguns, a plethora of machetes, knives, pistols, ammunition, and three boxes out of the bag. Sherlock’s gaze caught on something else and he turned the duffel inside out to reveal a large pentagram inside a closed circle with symbols between the points drawn in red. I looked at Sherlock, who surveyed the arsenal, filing the information away into his beloved mind palace. I could tell he was intrigued. I opened my mouth to ask him his thoughts when a groan sounded from my charge on the sofa. I finished cleaning the gash and closed it with a butterfly bandage as she came to. I was relieved. I didn’t want to try to reset her shoulder while she was unconscious, but I didn’t want to wait long either.

Her eyes flew open and she started awake. “No!” She shouted, looking about frantically.“It’s alright, miss. Calm down,” I found myself saying. “I’m Dr. Watson, This is Sherlock Holmes. You collapsed on our doorstep. You’re safe. I need you to breathe.” I reached out and tried laying her back onto the couch, saying as many calming things as I could think of. I watched her face, hoping she would comprehend my words. Then the pain flashed into her eyes as her situation caught up with her. “It’s going to be alright, dear. I have Mrs. Hudson making us some tea. Now, your shoulder is dislocated, so I’m going to pop it back into place, alright?” I explained everything I was doing, but she didn’t seem to understand that I was talking to her. She seemed more bewildered by the fact that she was inside a building at all. I took hold of her arm and said,”Alright, on the count of three. One-” POP!

“NGH!" she gritted her teeth and looked at me for the first time. She looked down at her shoulder as if it was foreign to her and continued to survey her body. She sat up, gingerly, taking in her surroundings, herself, and us before she ventured to speak.

“Where am I? What have you done with my boys?”

“You are in 221B Baker St. in London, England. A far cry from your home in America, correct?” Sherlock spoke up.

“And my boys?”

“Your children?”

“No, I just take care of them. Now. What have you done with them?”

“You came here alone. I assume your boys, as you call them, are just fine. You, on the other hand, have just sustained multiple lacerations, a dislocated shoulder, and possibly a concussion. I will leave you in the capable hands of Dr. Watson until you are able to explain your situation clearly,” Sherlock stated simply as he retreated to the kitchen to rummage.

Mrs. Hudson appeared with tea and biscuits as I set about examining our guest for any head trauma. “What is your name?” I asked.

“Imp-” She started then cut herself off.

“Imp? I like it. Where are you from?”

“All over.” She said.

“All right. Would you like some tea?” I offered her a cup and sat back in the little dining chair, watching her sip the brew. I took in Imp’s appearance in full, now that there was no immediate danger. She was tall, with pale skin and raven black hair. Her eyes were a light green that flashed almost gold depending on how the light hit them. She was dressed all in black with silver jewelry. An old style Chevrolet logo hung around her neck and a Kansas license plate printed on her shirt read “KAZ-2Y5”. She had a string of numbers tattooed on her collarbone, one on the inside of her left arm, and I guessed there were plenty more tattoos in various parts of her body. Pentagram earrings, like the one painted in her bag, dangled by her cheeks. Overall, she was a strange looking sort, but not unattractive. Her body was rather angular, but sleek as well. I couldn’t help but think that Sherlock would find her most puzzling.

“Who are you people?” Imp asked.

“Dr. John Watson, that’s Sherlock Holmes. He’s a Consulting Detective. We want to help.” i replied, lamely. I didn’t know who she was or what she was doing with an arsenal and a bunch of pagan paraphernalia, but I did genuinely want to help her. ”How about I go get Sherlock and we hear your story?” She nodded absently and stared at the mess on the coffee table.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, Imp in mine, and I was at the desk. He gave her his usual once over and began, “So, Imp. What brings a single matriarch of two all the way from Montana with a duffel bag of weapons, fake IDs, and a collection of rare herbs, talismans, and religious paraphernalia?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“Alright,” She sighed. ”Just don’t call me crazy or anything.” Sherlock nodded and she began.

 


	2. The Facts

 

“I live with two young men, whom I have known since they were both born. We are...bounty hunters of a sort. We go where the job takes us and we do what needs to be done. We don’t get much time off between jobs, but when we do, we stay at an old buddy’s cabin in Montana. That’s where we were when this- whatever it is- went down. I was sitting in the driveway not half an hour ago when the storm picked up out of nowhere. Next thing I know, I’m waking up here, on your couch with a dislocated shoulder.”

Imp finished her story and sat back in my chair. Sherlock was quiet for a minute, digesting the problem. He looked her over again and asked, “Tell me. How can I help you if you won’t give me all the facts?”

“Those are the facts,” Imp said defensively.

“Please give me ALL the facts or I won’t be able to help you”

“Such as?”

“You were sitting in a driveway in the middle of a lightning storm. Why? Why not just go inside?”

“I told you. It came out of nowhere. I didn’t have time to move.”

“Right.” Sherlock stood and started pacing. "And you don't remember acquiring your injuries?" Imp shook her head. He returned to the coffee table and studied the mess, "Your boys must believe some strange things if they can reconcile at least fifteen completely incompatible religions."

"Fifteen?" I spluttered.

"The paraphernalia, John. Look at it. Crucifixes, exorcisms, Pagan talismans from five no, six, different european religions alone, protection charms, hoodoo, witchcraft of various flavors. Some of the weapons are sacred, too. Tell me Imp, what exactly are you into?"

"How-"Imp asked, incredulous.

“Quite simple, really-”

“I’m sure it is. Now, my boys’ business is none of yours, so if you’d kindly put the African Dream Root down?”

“Imp, you made it our business when you entered this flat.”

“Right. And I entered this flat unconsciously, remember? Do you always assume that every girl that pops up on your doorstep with a dislocated shoulder is a problem that needs solving?”

“Well, in our experience, yes.”

“Oh.”

“What are they into?”

“I told you.”

“Yes. Bounty Hunters of a sort. Of a Sort being the operative phrase. What exactly do you ‘hunt’?”

“We hunt monsters.”

“All criminals are monsters.”

“Not that kind of monster.” Sherlock looked to our guest as realization dawned on him.

“Monsters aren’t real.”

“Look. This has been fun and all, but if I don’t have time for this. So, thanks for the tea, and you know, trying to help and all, but I’ll figure this out at home with my boys.” Imp stood and began replacing the arsenal in the duffel bag.

“How do you expect to get home from here? You have no money, no way to get all that contraband on any form of transportation, and-”

“Any normal form of transportation will take too long.” She stuffed the last box into the duffel and looked for her jacket.   
“Imp, you need to believe that we want to help you, but you need to be completely honest with us,” Sherlock said. I stood up and watched the whole interchange in a stupor.  

“You won’t believe me.”

“So you keep saying, but you have yet to give me a chance to do so.”

“Cas.”

“What?”

“Castiel.” Imp faced Sherlock and I could tell she was searching for the right words.

“What’s Castiel?” Sherlock asked. I saw a tinge of desperation in his face as questions piled upon questions and the mystery of the woman in front of him grew deeper and more complex. “Is that your real name?”

“You won’t believe this,”She said again and took a deep breath before she continued, “But I am the Impala, and I was taken from my driveway and planted here in 221B Baker St. London. I need help getting home to my boys, and if you can’t help me, no one can. Those are the facts. Believe me or not.”

“We’re trying to-” I began..

“I do not think she was talking to you,” A gravelly voice sounded from the kitchen. We all turned to see a man with messy dark hair, deep blue eyes, a baggy suit with a backwards tie, and a rumpled trenchcoat standing in front of the kitchen table, “I am Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord.”

Sherlock and I were rendered speechless. I am quite sure we both looked like a couple of gaping fish as we stood there and attempted to explain the seemingly random appearance of a man in our kitchen claiming to be an Angel of God. Imp, however, seemed relieved at his arrival and swept him into a hug, “Cas! I am so glad to see you-”

“You are not the Impala.”

“Cas-”

“The Impala is an automobile. You are not.”

“I am the Impala, Cas. Here. Look.” She pulled the collar of her shirt, “My VIN number,” She pointed to a tattoo on the inside of her arm, “My engine number,” She pulled her shirtsleeve up over her shoulder to reveal another tattoo, “The Army Man Sam shoved into my door handle when he was five,” She pulled the right side of her shirt up to reveal her torso, “The initials Sam and Dean carved into my upholstery. You’ve seen all those things before in only one place and you of all people know the significance of them. I was turned into a human and hurled across the world by a freak storm. Please, Cas, I just want to see my boys. Can you take me home?” Cas looked long and hard at her as if he were reading her mind and eventually nodded. Imp, or The Impala, turned back to the duffel and smiled at us. We barely registered it and only began to overcome our stupor when she crossed back to the strange man in the kitchen. Instinct took over and we lunged for them as Castiel lifted his fingers to her forehead. I saw Sherlock grab at the man’s coat as I latched onto Imp’s bag and we all landed in a heap- 

On a strange kitchen table. .


	3. Crash Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam's beloved laptop is crushed by Dean's beloved car. Accidentally, of course.

I heard the crunch of metal and plastic as Sherlock and I bowled Castiel and Imp onto the table. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and papers flew everywhere as we tumbled off the table onto a rough plank floor. The duffel’s strap tightened around my hand and threatened to crush it as Imp wrenched herself from underneath me. She rolled to her feet, never letting go of the bag, and placed one foot on my chest, keeping me pinned to the floor. She drew a pearl handled gun from her jacket and aimed it at my head. “That was not a wise decision, Dr. Watson,” she sneered dangerously. The sound of a second gun being cocked drew her attention away from me as I heard Sherlock say, “I’m afraid that was not a wise decision on your part, Imp. Let him go. Now.” Imp rolled her eyes, but lowered the weapon and released the duffel. I acted on instinct and grabbed her foot, flipping her on her back in a swift martial arts move. She hit the floor with a thud. I snatched the gun out of her hand and stood, reversing our roles. “On your feet, hands where I can see them,” I said, finally taking the opportunity to examine our surroundings.

We stood in a small, rustic cabin. Pine trees swayed outside in a cool, mountain breeze. Strange, occult looking symbols covered the walls, floors, and even some of the furniture in red and black spray paint. Ancient kitchen appliances, liquor bottles, and what smelled like three day old chinese takeaway made up the kitchen. The table was littered with old papers, more beer bottles, and a crushed laptop. On the far side of the room sat a couch, television, and drapes just as ancient as the refrigerator. This was most definitely NOT Baker St. “What the Hell?” I breathed.

“Actually, quite the opposite,” came the angel’s gravelly voice as a whoosh of air filled the room. Sherlock and I turned to face him and brought our guns around only to be met with two shotguns pointing at us from either side of Castiel’s grim (and frankly terrifying) gaze.

The men flanking Castiel were imposing to say the least and strangely familiar. The shorter of the two fixed his gaze on me, green eyes flashing in a sharp-featured face. He looked at the gun in my hand and his eyes narrowed. “That’s mine,” he growled venomously. The taller one held Sherlock in his sights, hazel eyes just as furious as his companion’s.

We stood like that for what seemed to be an eternity, sizing each other up. Finally, Sherlock broke the silence, “Sam and Dean Winchester. Ah, now it all makes sense.” I took a second look at their faces. The names set off a spark of recognition in my comparatively slow brain. “Wait. The serial killers?” I exclaimed. “The DEAD SERIAL KILLERS?!” The Winchesters rolled their eyes. The shorter one, Dean, sighed heavily, “That was a misunderstanding.”

“How do you know our names, anyway?” Sam asked.

“Child’s play,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock,” I warned. It was certainly not the time or place to show off. Dean started at the mention of my friend’s name.

“Wait. Sherlock Holmes?” He asked. Sam cast his brother a sidelong glance and soon it was his turn to look incredulous.

“Bullshit,” Sam said, turning his gaze back on my friend.

“In the flesh,” Sherlock said. “My colleague, Dr.-”

“John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” Sam finished. “We follow your blogs.”

“You follow our blogs?” I asked, incredulous. “Both of them?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Sam bitched for days after you took down that tobacco ash post.” It was my turn to roll my eyes. Sam did too. 

“Weapons down?” Imp piped up, arms still raised. She looked hopefully between all five of us. “First things first, sweetheart,” Dean said, reaching into his back pocket. He withdrew a flask and tossed it to her. “Name?”

“That’s your car,” Sherlock supplied. It sounded just as ridiculous coming from his lips as it did from hers and Cas’.

“Right. And you’re my Great Aunt Sally,” Dean replied. “Drink.” Imp took a swig and passed the flask to me. The Winchesters gave me a pointed down the hatch look and, not wanting to die, I drank. The whiskey inside was watered down and warm, but the alcohol was welcome nonetheless. I passed it to Sherlock and only after he swallowed did the Winchesters lower their weapons. Sherlock and I glanced at each other and slowly lowered our own. “How did you get my pistol?” Dean and I asked at the same time. I turned back to Dean, eyebrows raised. Sherlock clicked the safety on my gun and handed it to me as I did the same with the pearl handled Colt, extending it to Dean. “False bottom in the desk drawer? Really?” Sherlock asked. I rolled my eyes and said to Dean, “She had it. I took it.” I pointed to Imp and pocketed the Browning.

“Speaking of which,” Dean said, turning to face her. “You are most definitely NOT Baby.”

“Sorry, kiddo, but I am. Remember that freak lightning storm? Ripped me right outta the driveway and planted me in front of their flat in London. Popped my front right tire- wait. shoulder- outta socket. Ask Cas. It’s me.” She said. Dean turned to the angel expectantly.

“It is as she says, Dean. She has all the markings. She prayed to me by name. She knows every detail of your lives. And she is most definitely not human.” Dean’s gaze softened considerably at Castiel’s defense and he turned back to Imp. He stared hard at her for a second longer and when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse and almost broken, “Baby?”

“It’s me, Dean,” Imp’s eyes flashed as she lifted the hem of her shirt to reveal the two sets of initials carved into her skin. That was all the evidence required. Dean crushed her into a tight hug and grunted, “What happened to you?” “No idea,” she replied. “That’s why I need your help.” I shot a glance at Sherlock’s face. This was the complete opposite of boredom. If we didn’t investigate, he would be just as restless and incorrigible as he had been not two hours ago. “Uh, we’d like to help too, if that’d be alright,” I offered.

“No. Absolutely not,” Dean said, flatly. Sherlock bristled. His eyes flicked over the trio in front of us and he opened his mouth to deliver what no doubt would have been a scathing deduction when Sam intervened, “Dean, we could use their help.”

“Sam,” Dean began.

“Think about it,” Sam went on, “The two greatest detectives in the world appear out of nowhere asking to help us. I don’t see how we can refuse!”

“Simple! We say ‘no’! Doesn't this all seem a little too easy for you?”

“Yeah, Dean, it does! But why would the Impala end up at Baker St. in the first place? Did it ever occur to you that maybe it’s all connected?” Dean took a second to digest Sam’s argument.

“Fine. But no stupid heroics. You leave the monsters to us, then Cas sends you back home.” I nodded my consent. Sherlock smirked in victory. “Okay. First rule of hunting; find out what you’re dealing with,” Dean said, turning to Imp. She opened her mouth to respond, but Sam interrupted her, “My laptop! It’s- It’s-” he spluttered.

“I’m afraid that’s my fault, Sam,” Castiel said sheepishly. He touched the computer with two fingers. “That should be sufficient,” he said. Sherlock and I blinked in disbelief. It was as if it had never been broken. I looked at Sherlock. “Impossible,” I said. He smiled and returned my gaze, “Improbable, John, improbable.”


End file.
